


Meme Drabbles

by SilverRayan



Category: Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRayan/pseuds/SilverRayan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five drabbles from various universes and pairings, based on requests made on my LJ. TFA Prowl/Optimus, G1 Prowl/Starscream, G1 Mirage/Cliffjumper, G1 Perceptor/?, G1 Prowl/Jazz</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Requested by Ishimura

Cybertron. How long had it been since he had last been here? He hadn't set foot on his home world since he left after Master Yoketron's murder. He had missed it, he couldn't deny it. True he loved Earth, and that planet was more his home now than Cybertron, but it was still nice to be back. Or it would have been. The crowds were certainly excited to see them. But that was because they were thrilled that they had brought home Megatron and his forces in chains. He doubted it was because they were personally glad to see any of them.

He glanced at his comrades. None of them shared the joy of the masses. Bumblebee was smiling, but he could tell that the smile was fake. Jazz hid behind his visor, not expected to show emotion. The best of the Guards came off as emotionless. It served Jazz well now. Bulkhead was crying, but Prowl was unsure if anyone else had noticed his tears. The giant was doing his best to hide them. Ratchet's scowling face was lined with sorrow. He looked older now than he ever had before. Prowl himself remained blank, one hand gently resting on the glass pod that held the body of his leader. The once vibrant blue and red frame was grey, regal features slack. Ratchet had patched up the gaping hole in his side, courtesy of the explosion. It wasn't fair. Megatron had been just as close, if not closer. Why had the tyrant survived while his friend did not? Why had Optimus saved his enemy?

The ninjabot paid no attention as they were led through the city in a procession of honor. It seemed that all of Cybertron was there to watch the downfall of the great warlord. They quieted in respect as the body of his leader passed by, before resuming their exuberant chatter. Prowl just wanted to get to go home. Back to Earth, where things were simple. Back to when he could sit in silence with Optimus, sometimes in the park, or during one of his nature shows. He knew his friend didn't particularly care for nature, not in the way he did, but he had reached out through Prowl's interests, trying to connect to him. That had touched Prowl. No one had taken the time to care for him like that, not since his Master's death. No one except Optimus. He had sat through shows that held no interest for him, had taken the time to learn about nature so that he could talk to Prowl about his hobbies. In return Prowl had studied history, so that their discussions – and wasn't it nice to be able to have an intelligent discussion again – weren't all about him. From there, their friendship had grown, until they could talk about a broad range of subjects. They could debate the meaning of life for hours, or sit in silence. They would train together, Prowl attempting to teach Optimus Circuit Su, while in turn he was taught the Academy style. Prowl had begun to open up slightly, confiding in the quiet bot. He knew his leader was insecure, he just hadn't known the depth until Optimus explained it to him one night. In turn he had told him about his guilt for not being there when Yoketron was killed. He had found a kindred spirit in the seemingly perfect cadet. And now he was gone.

Jazz's hand on his shoulder startled him from his reverie. He did not jump, nor move away from the pod, but he did not brush the hand off, silently accepting the comfort. He knew Jazz was hurting too. They all were. Even the Decepticons seemed subdued, and not just because of their capture. He knew that there at the end, they had respected Optimus. That, coupled with the shock that an Autobot had died to save their leader had led to a very quiet trip back to Cybertron.

Prowl was relieved when the imposing headquarters building loomed in front of them. It would be a relief to get out of the public's sight, and to finally let down his guard. He, and the rest of the team, would mourn their friend in private, and when they emerged to attend the funeral, filled with mechs giving flowery speeches about a young soldier whom they had never known, they would be silent. They would honor their friend, their leader, their brother, in peace. And then, then they would ensure that Optimus' dying wish was fulfilled. Never again would there be war on Cybertron. Not so long as they still functioned.


	2. Unexpected

Request by graycalls

Prowl sighed. He knew of his reputation. He knew that mechs thought that he didn't know how to have fun, that he was an uptight book lover with no social skills. He knew, because he had worked hard to cultivate this image. Only Jazz and Prime knew otherwise, and he intended to keep it that way. It didn't stop it from hurting though, when he heard the insults. It was what he wanted; he had been adamant that he would be able to handle the scorn from the troops. So long as they followed his orders, and respected him on the battlefield, it wouldn't matter. There were still times though, when he needed to get away from them all. It would kill him to lose any of them, especially after getting to know them as well as he had on Earth, but at the same time, there were days when he wanted to kill them. Not seriously, but when the stress got to him, it forced his battle computer to come up with ways to make the strain go away. Needless to say, it would not be good for anyone on the Ark if he ever considered some of those plans.

Jazz could always tell when his façade was cracking. It was why he had returned to his quarters to find the TIC standing by his berth, arms full of high grade. He had promptly handed the bundle to Prowl, along with the order to get out, get drunk, and come back in no less than five cycles. So here he was, in the middle of a forest clearing, thousands of miles from the Ark, getting absolutely smashed. It wasn't much fun drinking alone, but it killed the plans his computer was feeding him, and, ironically, actually helped him focus. The excess energy in his system shut down the battle computer by feeding it an over-excess of energy, which was shunted to his tactical systems instead, allowing him to think more clearly. It did dull his sensory systems however, which was likely how he missed the incoming jet until it crashed down in front of him.

\----------

Starscream was not having a good day. Megatron had been in a foul mood, even before he had set about his daily sabotage. That had led to a painful trip to the med bay. Then Soundwave had spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get past his mental shields, leaving the seeker with a processor ache of epic proportions. Thundercracker, sensing his trine leader's distress, had suggested that he go for a flight. Starscream had been suspicious when his wing left had said that he would cover his duty shift, but in the end, the temptation of flying won out. He knew that he would have to repay the other, but at this point he didn't care. Unfortunately, in his haste to leave, the Air Commander has failed to note that his fuel levels were not sufficient enough to sustain a prolonged flight. That was how he found himself in a graceless downward spiral, which he knew would end in a spectacular crash.

Onlining in the middle of a forest covered in scrapes and dents was not surprising. The fact that he had not taken more damage was. The most surprising thing about his situation however, was that Starscream found himself onlining next to the Autobots' stunned SIC. He groaned inwardly, waiting for some kind of disparaging remark. When none came, he turned to fully face the Datsun, a sarcastic barb on his glossa. His thoughts were derailed by the empty cubes scattered around the clearing.

"Is that high grade?"

\----------

Jazz was head of Special Ops. As such, he had to be prepared for anything. He knew that he had not seen everything there was to see, but he liked to think that he had a fair amount of experience dealing with unusual situations. So when Prowl failed to report in on time, he wasn't too worried. Prowl was punctual, but he was also a mech, and prone to things like delayed traffic and blown tires like the rest of them. His pride wouldn't allow him to call for help. However, when a groon passed with no sign of Prowl, the TIC began to become concerned. When Prowl failed to respond to his comm, he was downright alarmed. He alerted the Prime, saying that he was going to track down their wayward second, before setting off towards Prowl's usual haunt. The sight that met him when he found his friend came close to knocking him on his aft.

Prowl was very drunk. He had somewhat expected that. Starscream was very drunk. He hadn't expected that at all. The seeker had an arm slung over the monochrome mech's shoulders, regaling him with a tale of disobedient subordinates. Prowl nodded with sympathy, exchanging his own tale involving the twins' latest prank. Both mechs laughed drunkenly, clinging to each other for support. Deciding that nothing of importance was being exchanged, the Porsche decided to leave them in peace, for the time being. Prowl was relaxed, and Primus knew he did that seldom enough. He turned away, only to whip back around when the two commanders began to sing a very dirty song about Megatron's fusion cannon. It had been popular at the beginning of the war, but Prowl had disproved of the crude tune. Jazz grinned, and flipped on his recorder. Prowl was never going to live this down.


	3. Starting Over

This one's for patokichi, who asked for Cliffjumper/Mirage forgiveness. 

 

Cliffjumper felt awkward. He had made a mistake. The minibot knew that he had a hot temper; it had often gotten him in trouble in the past. But never like this. He knew he should apologize, but he couldn't. He had almost gotten Mirage killed. Sure, he had accused the noblemech of being a spy. He had accused numerous others as well, anyone he deemed suspicious, and some he that were not. It was his job. Those who reacted in an overly dramatic manner, or tried to play it cool, warranted further investigation and their names were promptly handed over to Ops. But he hadn't thought that Mirage would take him so seriously. He certainly hadn't thought that Mirage would go out on his own to prove otherwise. In hindsight, he probably should have.

Mirage was a loner. 'Jumper knew that. The mech's upbringing had created a divide between him and the others on the Ark. Sure, he had a few friends, like Hound and Trailbreaker, but beyond that he didn't really have anyone. And Cliffjumper was beginning to think that the Mirage might be a bit insecure. His natural reclusive tendencies could mean that he was shy. He wasn't outgoing at all, and he hadn't really had any helpful skills beyond his electro-disrupter before Jazz had gotten a hold of him. He was a talented spy now, but if Cliffjumper had to guess, those initial feelings of inadequacy likely never went away. And then he had gone and made it worse.

Mirage had left in secret, leaving a note that he had wanted to visit a human art gallery in California. He had told no one but Prime, who had cleared his leave request, specifying that he could visit the gallery. Mirage had done just that, but he had neglected to mention his return route. One that took him right past the Pacific Ocean, and subsequently, the brand new Weapon of Doom™ that the Decepticons had created. He had been able to obtain the specs on the new weapon, and had managed to make it a decent distance from the site before he ran into the Stunticons. He hadn't been expecting them, and they had managed to lock onto him, chasing him for hundreds of miles. Mirage had made it back to Autobot territory before Breakdown had managed to unleash his mainframe destructive vibrations, nearly tearing the racer apart. Luckily, Cliffjumper and Ironhide had been on patrol, and had managed to drive the Cons off. It was also lucky that Mirage had made it as close to the base as he had. His spark wouldn't have survived otherwise.

So now, here he was, pacing in from of the med bay. Mirage was finally stable, but for a while it looked like he wasn't going to make it. Ratchet had been silent, and that was more terrifying than his curses. Jazz had reported half a groon ago that Mirage had pulled through, and was awake.

"Just go in, 'Jumper. He deserves to know, and if you keep it bottled up, you're going to kill someone." Cliffjumper sighed, knowing that Jazz was right. Bracing himself, he stepped into to the medbay. Mirage was on a berth near the back, hooked up to a multitude of machines. Cliffjumper moved to stand next to the noble.

He looked so fragile, lying there like that. Cliffjumper wanted to deny that he was the one who put him there, but he couldn't. He had been doing his job, yes, but he had resented the mech for his aloof attitude. He had perceived what he now knew to be insecurity as arrogance, and he had behaved rather viciously. He cursed his temper for the thousandth time.

"Hey Mirage." The noblemech inclined his head.

"Cliffjumper."

"Look, I just… I mean I…You weren't ever… frag it!" Cliffjumper was frustrated. He knew what he wanted to say, but he didn't know how. He'd rarely, if ever, had to apologize before. "I…I'm sorry," he managed, "I could say was just doing my job, but I won't. I will not make excuses. Fact is, you represent everything I grew up resenting, and I took it out on you. You were never under serious consideration, Pit, I don't think I ever really thought you were a traitor and a spy. You were just an easy target to vent at. I didn't mean to take it this far."

Amazingly, Mirage smiled. It wasn't his usual cool smile, the one that said he was being polite but not interested. No, this was a genuine smile, soft and kind and forgiving.

"I know. Thank you for your apology, but it is not necessary. I too know how anger and pressure can cause us to lash out. I have done the same thing before." Cliffjumper looked skeptical. Mirage laughed softly. "I have. I understand, really I do." The minibot looked at the berthbound mech as though debating something, before he abruptly stuck out his hand.

"I think we got off to the wrong start, so let's start over. Hi, I'm Cliffjumper." Mirage took the extended hand, gripping it firmly.

"I'm Mirage. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cliffjumper."


	4. Desert Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated for explicit smut!

Perceptor watched his mates fondly. Currently they were racing through the desert, calling taunts and insults to each other as they played. He was content to watch, not being a fan of speed. So while they frolicked in the sand he worked on collecting plant samples native to the desert. He hadn't had a chance to before now, and he welcomed the occasion. He turned away from them to focus on his samples. He worked in peace for about a joor, listening to the sounds of his mates. They had quit racing, and from the sounds of it were now play-fighting. He heard the sound of someone hitting the ground, before shrieking in laughter as what he thought was likely a tickle attack was launched. He didn't turn around to look, intent on his samples. He couldn't help the smile that touched his lips though. He still didn't know how he had gotten so lucky. They were beautiful, powerful mechs who could have had anyone they wished; he was just shy little Perceptor. Nothing special. Yet they had chosen him.

He hadn't known his mates when he had been on Cybertron. He had heard of them, of course. Their exploits were well known, especially their time spent in the gladiator rings. He had seen them on the live broadcasts once or twice when a colleague had the games on in the lab. He had noticed them immediately. They were the embodiment of grace and power, restrained in mech form. Lethal yes, but the danger was part of the attraction. None of the other gladiators interested him at all, it was just them. His friend, Blue Frost, had spent vorns squealing over his "adorable crush". He had never understood why the femme had been so excited about it. It wasn't like he would ever get to meet them. When Perceptor had tried to explain that she had shrugged and said it was fun to tease him, and he would look good between them. He had never brought it up again. When the war had struck he had forgotten about them for a time. Occasionally he would see them in his dreams, but he thought nothing of it. They were a fantasy from before the war. He doubted that they were still alive.

It had come as a shock when he transferred to the Ark to find them there, a part of Optimus' crew. He had made an utter fool out of himself the first time he had met them, stuttering and blushing like a "fangirl", according to Carly. He had then locked himself in his labs and refused to come out. The microscope hadn't known that his embarrassment was what had caused the twins to take notice of him. Well that, and the two of them over hearing him confessing his crush on them to Ratchet.

He never would have approached them. He was too shy, too quiet, and outside of his intelligence, which he was secure in, he didn't have much self esteem. Because of this, it had surprised him when they had shown up at his labs and dragged him to the target range, intent on teaching him to defend himself. He had been shy and reluctant at first, but Prime had thought it was a good idea so he ended up meeting them daily for practice in weaponry, which evolved into hand-to-hand combat. Then they had begun to take their rations with him during the mid-shift hour, and had shown up in his labs even when they were off duty. He hadn't realized that they were courting him until Sideswipe got frustrated, pinned him down during a sparring match and kissed him hard. Perceptor had stalled momentarily, before kissing back. He hadn't believed it then, thinking perhaps that he was dreaming. Then golden hands began to trail over his chassis and he had stopped thinking at all.

Strong arms wrapping around his trim waist jerked him out of his memories. A hot mouth pressed against his neck cables, suckling them gently. A hand on his chin gently turned his head, hot lips capturing his own in a dominating kiss. He moaned into Sideswipe's mouth, letting his glossa play with his mate's.

"Sides share." Sunstreaker's mouth replaced Sideswipe's as the twins guided their smaller mate to lie down in the sand. Both twins were running hot; Perceptor knew that there would be no foreplay this time. That was fine. He loved it when they 'faced him roughly, driving their spikes into him hard and fast. Just thinking about him made him hot. He could feel his lubricant begin to coat his valve.

A red had reached down and removed his codpiece, two fingers slipping deep inside him, testing his readiness. He groaned when they retreated, clamping his valve to keep them inside. Sunstreaker chuckled against his lips.

"So eager Percy. Tell us what you want."

"You! Please, want you inside! Frag me!"

"As you wish," the twins spoke in unison. Perceptor was flipped over onto his knees, with Sunstreaker below him and Sideswipe behind. Sunny's thick, delicious spike was already pressing up inside him, stretching him and filling him. When he pulled out Sideswipe thrust in. Perceptor screamed, writhing against his beloved mates. They took him hard and fast, alternating until finally both spikes pressed into him at once.

"You're so tight and wet Percy. We love seeing you like this, at our mercy, open to anything we want to do to you."

"Come on, sweetspark, overload for us." Sideswipe re-enforced his statement with a deep thrust.

"O-oh Primus! Please…don-don't stop! Nngh! Harder!" It burned so good, stretching him beyond his limits, pain and pleasure merging together. Lubricant leaked from his valve, coating his thighs and his lovers' as they pierced his wet depths again and again. Percy knew it wouldn't take long for him to overload like this, and he knew Sunny and Sides weren't far behind. One more thrust was all it took, and then three voices cried out to the open sky. They collapsed in a heap, paint popping as their systems cooled.

"Wha- what brought this on?" Identical smirks met his question.

"You just looked,"

"so hot on your hands and knees,"

"with your pert little aft,"

"up in the air like that."

"We couldn't help ourselves," they finished in unison. Perceptor smiled, and cuddled into the warriors.

"Love you two. I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I am thankful."

"Love you too Perce."

"Always. And shouldn't that be the other way around? I'm glad we did whatever we did to end up with you."


	5. Chapter 5

The Ark was silent. It was well into the night cycle and the only mechs awake were the ones on duty. He had the Rec Room to himself. He would have preferred to do this in his quarters, but Bluestreak had had a nightmare and was currently curled up on his berth, deeply in recharge. The Rec Room would do. Prowl was sure he would be able to sense anyone who approached.

Surveying his work, the Praxian nodded with satisfaction. The sofa, tables and chairs had been pushed to the far wall, leaving him plenty of room to move. Soft, familiar music played in the background. His doorwings fluttered in time to the steady beat. He had missedthis.

Before the war Prowl had not, as most believed, worked for the Enforcers. He had actually had a very different occupation. Despite his creators' burning desire to see him follow in his Sire's pedesteps and enroll in the prestigious Enforcer Academy - even going so far as to have an advanced tactical computer installed in him - Prowl had pursued a career as a professional dancer. The only concession he had allowed his Creators was taking on an alias to dance under so as not to cause them further shame. But he had never let their disgust hinder him. As Lyrical he had dominated the dance scene. He excelled in all of the styles, but his passion was for the Rio de La Praxus. The rest of Cybertron knew it as the Tango Criollo, and it was a passionate, fiery dance. It could be danced alone, making the mecha watching yearn to be the dancer's partner, or with another mecha, causing the audience to envy the dancers. Mechs and femmes came from across the planet to watch him dance (and many would have killed for the chance to dance with him).

Prowl could and had danced it alone, but he preferred a partner. There was something about the way a good partner moved with him, not simply mirroring his movements but dancing with him, that was irresistible. When he had danced professionally Rhythm, his best friend since childhood, had danced with him. Most of their fans had expected the pair to bond, as they were rarely seen apart, and they had discussed it, but even though they loved each other, they were not in love with each other. Still, Rhythm's death in the destruction of Praxus had almost destroyed Prowl. He had survived only because he had been at a solo competition in Iacon. Even though Prowl survived, Lyrical did not. With his city senselessly destroyed, millions slaughtered and Rhythm dead Prowl could not dance. He had immediately enlisted in the Autobots. In the end his Creators got their way. His battle computer made him an invaluable officer, and he had given up dancing.

But tonight he was restless. His body craved movement and his spark cried out for him to dance. Even after all this milivorns it was still his passion. He needed it. He could no longer deny it.

The music changed to a more primal beat and the Praxian easily slipped into the rhythm. He was a little rusty but he hadn't lost any of his grace, and it quickly came back to him. So lost in the music he didn't notice his watcher hidden in the shadows.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you had told Jazz a breem ago that Prowl was hiding a passionate spark underneath his icy exterior he would have laughed and called you crazy. But no one who moved like that, all beauty and fire and sensuality, could possibly be frigid. The last thing the TIC had expected when he stopped by the Rec Room to get a late night snack was to find the so-called sparkless mech dancing the Praxian Tango. He couldn't tear his optics away, hungrily tracing the lithe form. How had he never noticed how beautiful the Datsun was?

A simple, elegant paint job highlighted smooth, sensual movements. Doorwings swept up gracefully to frame a gorgeous face. Aquamarine optics, high cheek plates and plush lips below a red chevron were enticing now that he had taken the time to look. Prowl had always had a frozen beauty, but it was one you appreciated from a distance. The mech was untouchable. But now, with his optics dim and an expression of bliss on his face, Prowl was desire incarnate.

The dance steps changed. Doorwings swept up and back arched. Prowl transitioned from dancing alone to dancing with a partner. Although there was no one there Jazz could easily picture a mech moving perfectly in time with the Datsun. Jealousy flared in his spark, surprising him with its intensity. He wanted to be the one Prowl was dancing for.

Go, his impulsiveness said. Jazz resisted. Prowl wouldn't appreciate knowing he was being watched. Go, it said again. You want to. No. He wouldn't. He could master his slagging impulsiveness. Go. Dance with him before another partner steals him away. Jazz paused. Frag that.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prowl's optics had slipped off. It felt phenomenal to dance again. He knew now that he had done so he wouldn't be able to walk away from it. That was okay. He needed it like most mechs needed energon and he had crippled himself by refusing a vital part of his spark.

The presence of another mech had his optics flashing on. Prowl found himself staring into a burning visor. Jazz said nothing; he moved with Prowl easily. The tactical computer shrieked in surprise, demanding that the tactician disengage and leave. His spark told the computer to shut up and dance. For once, Prowl listened to his spark. He melted into the tango, his style meshing beautifully with Jazz's.

Jazz purred as he held Prowl close. They moved faster, picking up speed as the crescendo approached. He spun his partner out before pulling him back in and dipping him deeply. His spark thrilled as Prowl arched into it, one long leg extending fully. They stayed like that for a long klik, frozen in the moment as the music faded away. Finally Jazz helped Prowl back up, never relinquishing his hold on the smooth plating. He met Prowl's optics. Pleasure glazed the mech's optics and a sweet flush made him look so kissable. Unable to resist the temptation Jazz darted in, intending to press a chaste kiss to plump dermas. Prowl gasped, and the chaste kiss deepened as the TIC took advantage of the opening. He slid his glossa into Prowl's mouth, lapping at the sweet fluids and coaxing Prowl's own glossa to play. The dancer responded eagerly, meeting Jazz half way. He coyly suckled on the other's glossa, garnering a moan from the music lover. Jazz wrapped his arms around a thin waist as Prowl's own slid around his neck. Prowl was delicious; sweet and passionate, and completely different than the mech he let others see. Jazz never wanted this moment to end. Pulling away reluctantly, he nipped softly at the soft dermas. That small action seemed to bring Prowl back to himself, and he jerked away from his dance partner. For a moment he seemed to be lost for words, before deciding that there was nothing he could say. The black and white mech fled the Rec Room was as much dignity as he could manage.

Jazz watched him retreat. He wanted to go after the mech, but he knew that he had shaken Prowl. He had seen a side no one had, and it spooked the other that Jazz knew his secret. But Jazz could be patient when he wanted to be. And now that he had seen the true Prowl, had had a teasing taste, he wasn't going to let him go. They would tango again. In more ways than one, if Jazz got his way. And Jazz was very good at getting what he wanted.


End file.
